The King of Dunkirk

by Dominic Fielder

  “I’m not surprised. You are a mercenary army.” Colonel Franke muttered under his breath.

  The Hessian turned to look at the officer on his right.

  “Yes, we are. A man makes a whore of himself in which ever army he joins. We like to make sure we are paid for the privilege; even now our good Count Louis is sat on his arse counting his earnings from pimping us.”

  “Are you sure you are fighting for the right side? A little respect of your monarch, if you please, sir,” Franke replied, angrily.

  The Hessian turned back from the Colonel; an impish grin briefly appeared on his face before he spoke again.

  “Four months ago, we were in the pay of the Prussians; four months’ time, who knows? But the French are idealists. My men can’t buy beer and women with dreams. They prefer hard coin, as do I. British pay will do for me and we didn’t have to riot to get it.”

  He patted at the pockets of his green infantry jacket before standing.

  “I need to smoke. Gentlemen, excuse me.” He tilted his head in the merest of bows and then added, “A fine tale nonetheless Captain; she is definitely worth saving.”

  The Hessian officer turned and left just as the Countess left her place at Prince Josias’ side; the dignitaries seated around her rose as she left to walk down between the tables and place her hand gently on the shoulder of Brandt. Again, the officers stood and offered her a seat but with a simple gesture she bade them to remain as they were.

  “Captain Brandt, I came to thank you. I’m not sure that I did at the time. It was remiss of me.”

  Brandt felt his cheeks blush, for the second time in her company, not that anyone around him had noticed; all eyes were fixed on the Countess.

  “It was nothing. Apparently, I should have killed the Prussian officer, according to one of our guests.”

  Brandt pointed in the direction of the empty chair. He felt uneasy seated with the Countess behind him and out of his field of vision and the gentle touch of her hand on his shoulder added to his awkwardness.

  “Perhaps,” she laughed, “But you did rather struggle to disarm me. You might need to work up to taking on a dozen cavalrymen at once.”

  Riotous laughter thundered around him. And Brandt felt embarrassment deepen further. He was lost for a reply, fortunately von Bomm wasn’t.

  “Well, Countess, perhaps if you were a better shot, there might have been a promotion looming in my old battalion; not that I want to leave the Grenadiers of course.”

  Von Bomm flashed a quick smile at Colonel Franke before returning his full attention to the Countess and enjoying the deep scarlet in the cheeks of Brandt next to him.

  Juliette smiled. “You should have been born a Frenchman, Lieutenant. You have that impudent way that was so in fashion before the revolution. Now I fear such bravado may lie a little dormant. Anyhow, perhaps I missed deliberately? Adieu, gentlemen. Again, Captain Brandt, thank you.”

  Brandt felt the merest squeeze on his shoulders; he rose with the other officers to acknowledge the Countess as she moved away. For the briefest of moments, he held the gaze of emerald green eyes, then Juliette was gone.

  The men returned to their seats.

  “I think she likes me,” von Bomm said to men who could not help themselves but to stare at her slim silhouette.

  “Well next time she can try and blow your head off. It will give you a chance to test that theory!” Brandt drained the glass of red wine and tried to picture Katerina’s face as if to block out the touch of Juliette.

  “Who was our friend opposite, sir?” Belvedere asked of Franke, pointing at the empty chair.

  Franke turned over the name card that had been folded under a crumpled napkin bearing the Austrian royal cypher. He cast a stern look toward the other Hessian officers who were still gazing at the wake of the Countess as she left the banquet.

  “Von Schroeder; Hessian Chasseurs; insolent bastard!” Franke spat the words.

  “Oh, I don’t know, sir. I quite liked him.” Brandt spoke the words without thinking and felt the weight of Franke’s gaze in angry return.

  Valenciennes: 19th July 1793

  Under a canopy of stars on a moonless night, the redcoats stood watch. The trenches were now five hundred yards from the French lines. Krombach could see the silhouettes of French sentries along the castle walls of the city. The allied guns had ceased firing for the night. It was perhaps three hours until first light giving the French citizens and soldiers another two hours of sleep, if they could find it. The siege guns would start again, an hour before dawn and another day of misery would befall those who held out in Valenciennes. A shiver passed through him as he imagined the world of the people within the walled town. Behind him he heard a noise, turned and then saw movement in the light of a line of torches, driven into the hard soil on wooden stakes ten pace intervals.

  “Face the front, idiot boy!”

  The voice was unmistakable. Gauner was patrolling the section of trench that 2nd Company had been ordered to defend.

  “Your eyes will be useless for the next fifteen minutes. You have been told to face forward. Doesn’t your fancy English major tell you useful things like that when you keep his bed warm at night?”

  Around Krombach, a few suppressed chortles could be heard. It was always the same drill, better to laugh at Gauner’s barbs than be the focus of them.

  Coming back to the battalion had been more difficult than Krombach had anticipated. Even Pinsk, after asking a few questions about Krombach’s escapades seemed to suggest that Krombach had avoided the onerous duty of digging that had been the battalion’s daily toil. Gauner had been his usual belligerent self, at first trying to brow beat information from Krombach, then changing tack and acting as if a cross word had never passed between them. In truth, there was little to tell but Trevethan had asked him not to talk about the locations that they had visited. He clenched his musket and looked to the front again. Gauner was right; the torchlight had cost him his eyesight for the moment. In the rush to complete the assault trenches, the battalion had worked over several nights. Then the torches had been invaluable; now there seemed little reason for them being there.

  Gauner moved along the line and by the time he had returned, Krombach’s vision felt as sharp as before. This time he did not turn his head. He heard Gauner stop, felt the man’s breath close against his ear.

  “Come on lad. It’s just you and me. The whole army knows it’s Dunkirk next. Think of your mates in the battalion. What did you see? Walls like this? Or are we going to walk straight in? I almost respect you for keeping your mouth shut but if something bad is coming our way, I want to know. It’s my job to get the boys ready for what’s ahead see. Sergeant Gauner looks after everyone in his company, even you. Are the Frenchies expecting us, boy?”

  “Movement, Sergeant.” Henry Pinsk’s voice cut across the interrogation.

  Gauner paused, and Krombach heard him take a pace to the left, while his own eyes raked the darkness for shapes.

  “Where? You’re the blindest man in the army, Corporal!” Gauner whispered hoarsely.

  “Perhaps but I’m not deaf! Ahead and to the left. There was splashing in the stream.”

  “Are you sure it’s not fish?”

  “It would be bloody big fish, Sergeant. Besides, the Austrians have pissed into that water. I doubt anything’s still alive in it.”

  Krombach turned his head slightly to the left. He could see the outlines of Gauner and Pinsk staring intently into the night. Ahead and below, was the confluence of the Rhonelle and the Scheldt and a little further downstream there was a ford. It would be the crossing point if the French were to plan a night raid. Krombach concentrated intently.

  There, a muffled sound; footsteps slipping over rocks; a canteen catching on a musket butt? Then there was movement, against the backdrop of the grey wall. The French were coming.

  “Find Captain Thalberg, Pinsk. Hurry! Tell him we are about to be attacked,” Gauner whispered. “The rest of
you, ‘Make Ready’.”

  Gauner moved down the line, repeating the whispered instruction. Krombach's right hand slid along the stock and felt the cock of musket, clicking it into place, ready for the next command. Around him a dozen clicks were heard, and more men along the line of the trench would be following suit. Krombach felt the weight of the musket heavy in his hands. He had been ordered to load it and fix the bayonet, the moment he took his position in the trench. Then the waiting had begun; searching the darkness, trying not to drift off and give in to sleep. Now he was acutely aware of everything around him, patches of movement, more pronounced. The enemy was close, scrambling up the steep hillside towards the trench line. In a minute, no less, they would burst onto the defenders in the trenches.

  The seconds ticked by, Krombach looked anxiously ahead, flicking eyes left and right. The command to ‘Present’ had yet to be issued. He heard Lieutenant Schafer scramble past, shouting for Gauner with a voice edged with panic. Captain Brandt had been excused duty for the evening, the company had been led to the trench-line by Captain Thalberg, the commander of Fourth; a stranger was going to lead them in battle. He heard the familiar voice of Company Sergeant Roner issuing commands.

  “Look to the front, Brandt’s Company. Listen to the orders!”

  “Sergeants to your posts.” A new voice rang out: Thalberg.

  Pinsk scrambled back into place. Krombach felt relieved and was about to tell him so but his throat was dry. Behind Krombach more movement, a runner had scrambled out of the back of the trench, no doubt to summon help. Any moment now, the muskets of 2nd Company would wake the whole of the army.

  Then he saw them clearly, thirty yards away.

  “Present.” Krombach wedged the musket into his shoulder.

  “Fire!”

  He squeezed the trigger, was blinded by the flash and then felt the kick of the Brown Bess. Cordite and white smoke engulfed him and for the moment he panicked. What if the French were closer? He imagined a bayonet spearing out of the darkness towards his eyes.

  “Prime and Load.”

  There was no time to think, pan and cock were clicked open, a new cartridge found, paper bitten off, powder sprinkled into the pan which was then snapped shut. He could hear the cheers of the French in the darkness. He reached for the end of the barrel sliding the butt of the musket into the loose earth of the trench. The balance of the cartridge powder was tipped into the barrel, paper cartridge and ball followed. Krombach felt for the rammer and whipped the thin metal rod out of its seating and into the barrel. As he withdrew it, a Frenchmen loomed out of the darkness, two yards from him. There were no more commands. Krombach dropped the ramrod, jammed back the musket cock and fired at the heavily built Frenchman who was about to fire his own weapon. The Brown Bess kicked Krombach in the hip; there had been no time to bring the musket to his shoulder and the impact threw him off balance. The Frenchman fell in a crumpled heap, to be replaced by two others who stepped over the dying body.

  Krombach stepped back from the edge of the trench, itself no more than three feet deep, but with the enemy on top of them, it gave the attacker the advantage. A brilliant flash of yellow followed. Earth sprayed his face and his left ear rang with the sound of a passing musket ball. The French soldier, having fired, twisted his musket around by the barrel, to drive the butt deep into Krombach’s slumped body, but the German propelled himself forward with all his energy. Before the Frenchman could react, the redcoat’s bayonet sliced into his thigh and then up into the groin of the blue-coat who was about to kill him. The French soldier screamed and fell back, a jet of blood pumping from the deep gash.

  More muskets crackled in the darkness then the French were in the trench all around him. Another blue- coated soldier turned to face Krombach, the man’s eyes crazed with anger. He swung his firearm in a circular arc, the butt catching Krombach on the left shoulder, causing the German to lose his grip on his Brown Bess and send him sprawling at the feet of his attacker. The Frenchman raised the butt of his musket in triumph, preparing to drive it deep into Krombach’s skull. But as he made to thrust downwards, the white shirt under the man’s blue tunic was pierced silver then red as the tip of a sword blade punched through the Frenchman's back and out through his rib-cage. The dying blue-coat collapsed in slow motion, like a huge pine being felled. Before Krombach could roll away the weight of the man had pinned him. He felt a kick to the side of his head as men fought around and over him. Another body fell onto him: Krombach struggled for breath and drifted into darkness.

  Light and sound came back along with the warmth of sunlight on his face.

  “Come on, you aren’t dead, just yet.” The voice was Henry’s. “Try and drink. Doc’ Wexler thinks you might have broken a rib or two.”

  Krombach tried to push himself up, feeling cool damp grass under his hands; it felt as if he had been kicked in the chest by a mule. Around him redcoats were manning the trench. A pile of French bodies lay around the trench line; other Frenchmen were busy helping carry wounded soldiers away.

  “What’s going on, Henry?”

  “They called a truce. You have been out for hours; missing the heavy work, as usual.”

  There was warmth in Pinsk’s words and Krombach took the canteen that his friend offered him. He could see Reifener standing guard over some French prisoners further up the hill and nearer the trench line, the Colonel was deep in conversation with Major Volgraf and Captain Brandt. Around them, redcoats swarmed in various duties. A dozen bodies were laid out, covered in stained and dirty sheeting which had been ransacked from some farmhouse, no doubt. Doctor Wexler approached the three men, spoke a few words and then headed off up the hill towards where Reifener was crouched.

  “Our wounded are up there. It was a bloody fight. Of course, Andreas doesn’t have a scratch on him.” Pinsk spoke while Krombach slurped the cool water. “Easy now, ‘Bastion, you’re drinking like a horse.

  Gauner’s voice boomed out ordering some poor unfortunate to get a move on. Krombach looked down to see his linen trousers stained yellow and bloodied. He puffed out his cheeks and looked slightly shamefully at his friend.

  “Don’t worry, there’s plenty who did worse than that. I’d say the Twenty will have their work cut out removing a few stains. And yes, Gauner is still very much alive. Captain Thalberg is dead though. Shame, he seemed like a good gentleman.”

  “When?”

  “Not sure, you were under a heap of bodies, his was in it. God knows how you survived.”

  “I remember a man standing above me and then a blade in his chest?”

  “Perhaps it was the Captain?” Pinsk mused. “Either way he’s dead, we are alive. Come on let’s get you on your feet.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Hornworks.

  Valenciennes: 20th July 1793

  The Duke reread the dispatch from London. Dundas was clearly vexed; an acidic undercurrent tore through words of thin cordiality.

  “Why does this man not realise we have not conducted a siege for the best part of a century. We are in the hands of the Austrians. I can’t tell him how long it’s going to take, can I?”

  Sir James Murray doing his best to look the part of consoling chief of staff, shrugged and replied, “No sir, you cannot. And I would not understand all of the technicalities but perhaps it is time we flexed our strength?”

  The Duke shrugged in resignation.

  Murray turned and barked towards the open doorway of the tent.

  “Major Trevethan, if you please?”

  The Cornish engineer was stood outside enjoying the warmth of the morning, sharing a smoke and a mug of tea with Jackson. The Commissary General, who looked more pirate than army official quipped.

  “In trouble again? Any more of this and they will send you home, m’ boy!”

  “I should be so bloody lucky,” Trevethan muttered and headed inside.

  A few minutes later he emerged and rolled his eyes at Jackson.

  “What would they do w
ithout me? I’m off to negotiate with my best chum, Count bleedin’ Orlandini and his spotless uniform and see if we can put a rocket up his arse. Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I might save that as a last resort. Now I’m off to borrow a horse.”

  Murray emerged from the tent.

  “Trevethan, find Major Congreve, take him with you. You know how the Austrians love a professional opinion after all!”

  Dundas, in his wisdom had sent an artillery officer who had spent the last ten years working in the Royal Laboratories at Woolworth, to supervise the British siege guns. As of yet there was no sign of any siege artillery or gunners to command, a point that was of acute embarrassment to the under-employed officer of artillery.

  Jackson watched Trevethan go, wishing him luck on a seemingly fruitless venture then settled into a chair to enjoy the warmth of the morning before beginning trawling through a series of ledgers to balance the accounts of the campaign so far; a tedious task which was already delayed. Dundas had asked for a fortnightly report and the latest was overdue. There were also victuals to be prepared for Dunkirk, if the army was ever to get there. Bergues would become the point of supply; the Dutch had kindly consented to the British using the town for such a purpose. Now all that was needed was for the Dutch to hold on to it. Trevethan had assured the Duke that with General Boetslaar having forces in the area, that matter was at least assured. Murray had suggested sending one of the junior staff officers to oversee the initial arrival of stores and ammunition, the problem was who to send. If stupidity were a virtue then the young Guards officers were virtuous indeed. As Jackson’s mind drifted with the gravity of the problem, Sergeant-Major Winckler arrived with an inventory of the recently arrived stores of ammunition.

  “Ah, Sergeant-Major, perfect timing as ever, I have a job for you. A spot of babysitting suited to a man of your impeccable skills. Come and take a pew,” Jackson patted the empty chair next to him and began to lay out his plans to his Hanoverian ally.